


amulet

by deanssammy (babylxxrry)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dark, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, no one dies, please check the notes for tws
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:48:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylxxrry/pseuds/deanssammy
Summary: I’m sure your dad’s proud of you,the lady had said.Sam laughs bitterly.[the one where the amulet means more than it should.]





	amulet

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> \- massive warning for discussions of suicide and suicidal thoughts/actions (none actually carried through with)  
> \- particularly suicidal thoughts from 8yo sam
> 
> suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255
> 
> hi i was supposed to write something for day 7 of the spn prompts: sweater. this happened. i didn't think it fit, so i'm going to post it separately and write something else to double-post on the 8th. sorry.  
> again, before you read, please check trigger warnings.

Sam knows they’re short on money. As much as Dad and Dean try to hide it from him, he’s not the smartest kid in his class for nothing. He sees the way Dean always picks the cheapest cereal and the day-old bread and the discounted dented cans when they go shopping. He sees the way Dad will pass his old shirts and jackets to Dean when they’re too worn to provide much protection for hunting. Dean teaches him how to short-change the motel washing machines, and Dad brings him outside one night and teaches him how to siphon gas from other cars in the middle of the night.

But it’s almost December, and Sam wants to get something for Dad and Dean, so he starts saving. Every time they leave him alone at a motel, he burrows between the couch cushions and digs out spare change. He swipes the coins from those little Take-a-Penny-Give-a-Penny containers at cashiers’ stations. He picks dollar bills up off the street. He figures out how to pick the locks on the washing machines so he can grab handfuls of change. He teaches himself to run into people, swipe their wallets while they help him up, pocket a bill, and then hand the wallet back with a big eyes and a little smile. It’s never failed him yet. He keeps all of the money in his old lunchbox, which he leaves sitting in the corner of the closet. He’s the only one around enough to check, anyways.

Dean and Dad leave late on Christmas Eve morning, despite Dean’s reluctance to leave Sam alone. Sam sits quietly and lets them argue, and it’s not long before Dean sighs heavily, coming over to ruffle Sam’s hair.

“I’ll be back soon, okay Sammy?”

Sam nods, thinking of the lunchbox. Dean’s lips brush his forehead. Sam shivers. Dad’s dark look follows them, and Sam purses his lips. He doesn’t see the issue with his brother loving him. Brothers are supposed to love each other, right? Would Dad prefer them to be fighting each other all the time?

Sam fixes the salt line at the door out of habit before he grabs the lunchbox. He could’ve left it since he’ll be out of the door once the Impala purrs out of the parking lot, but he’s smarter than that.

He peeks out the window and watches as the sleek black car rolls onto the street. Good. All clear.

Sam takes his lunchbox and a roomkey and marches out to the secondhand store down the street. He’s not quite sure what he’s getting yet, but he’s determined to get something for both Dad and Dean.

He wanders around the store, a little lost in all of the clothes and toys and the things he doesn’t know the names of, but after his third loop, he spots a soft grey sweater on the corner of the rack. It looks like it’ll fit Dean perfectly, and Sam’s proud of himself. Dean needs a new sweater anyways—they don’t get new clothes very often and Sam knows how worn Dean’s is getting. There’s a necklace hooked onto the hanger of the sweater, some fancy pendant-looking thing, and Sam assumes it comes with the sweater. Dad can have that.

He hands it to the lady at the counter and she smiles at him.

“That’ll be $12.47, young man.”

Sam bites his lip. He doesn’t have $12.47. He counted before he left and he’s got exactly $11.20. He passes his box of change over and waits for the lady to count it out.

“Ma’am, I know that isn’t enough but I’ve saved up all my allowance this year to get something for my dad and my brother. We don’t have a lot of money, and I just want to make it special for them.” Sam pulls out his best puppy eyes and watches the lady fall apart in front of him.

“Oh, sweetie, of course you can have it. You’re such a responsible and thoughtful boy, I’m sure your dad’s proud of you.”

Sam nods with a tight-lipped smile and grabs the sweater and the necklace and the empty box.

“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice day.”

“You too, hon!”

Sam lets himself back into the room and fixes the salt line, then checks the ones at the windows before he settles back into the couch with his purchases. The sweater’s warm and fuzzy and soft and he hopes Dean will like it. The necklace is heavy, some kind of metal that’s cool to the touch. It looks like a face with horns. Dad will like it, Sam knows.

 _I’m sure your dad’s proud of you_ , the lady had said.

Sam laughs bitterly. He knows Dad’s not proud of him. All he does is weigh them down and keep them from hunting effectively because they’re worried about him. God. What kind of son and brother is he? Nothing but dead weight. Would almost be better without him, and it’s not like he doesn’t have access to the weaponry to make it happen. Dad left a fucking .45mm pistol with him and taught him how to use it last year. Dean’s the only real thing keeping him from leaving, though, because he thinks Dean might love him enough to actually care if he put a bullet in his head. Fuck.

Sam shakes himself out of that train of thought before he ends up with the barrel of the gun at his temple again. He makes himself a bowl of off-brand fruit loops and milk that’s going just the slightest bit sour for lunch. He can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s off, but he’s choosing to ignore it.

After lunch, he folds the sweater carefully and places it in the gift bag he stole from some Walmart a couple states back. Let it not be said that Sam Winchester does not plan ahead. He doesn’t have any tissue paper, but his class made some stupid red and green thing with construction paper, so he lays that and some ripped-up magazine on top of the sweater in the bag and hopes it’ll pass. Dad’s necklace he’ll just hand over directly, it won’t be as important to have a pretty present. Dean likes pretty things, Sam knows.

It briefly crosses Sam’s mind if Dean thinks he’s pretty, but he quashes the idea as soon as he thinks it. He’s not pretty. Never will be. The thought stings a little.

Sam wonders what Dad and Dean are hunting. Maybe a wendigo, maybe some ghost, maybe a vampire or a zombie. A chupacabra? or one of those selkie types. Dad doesn’t tell him much, but maybe he can get something out of Dean when they’re back. Sam sighs and turns the TV on. There’s some shitty cartoon on, but it’s better than nothing. He dozes on and off, dreaming of some angel in a trenchcoat (seriously, no one wears trenchcoats), him and Dean in the frontseat of the Impala, oddly enough the necklace. Weird. When he wakes up for real, it’s dark out, and the TV’s moved on to kitchen appliance commercials. He wonders if Dad and Dean are coming back soon. The salt is undisturbed, so they didn’t come back at all.

There’s a knock on the door. It clicks open.

Speak of the devil.

“Sammy?” Dean’s voice comes from the vague direction of the front door. “’m home!”

Sam stays quiet and lets Dean find him sitting on the couch with the gift bag and the necklace clutched tight in his fist.

“Heya, kiddo. Miss me?”

Sam nods. “Had cereal for lunch. Milk’s spoiling.”

Dean grimaces. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry about that, I’ll buy a new jug tomorrow when we go shopping.”

“Where’s Dad?” Sam asks. Dean had kicked the salt line back in place when he came in, and it doesn’t look like Dad’s coming in anytime soon.

Dean sighs. “I’m sorry, Sam. Dad got a new update on the thing we’re hunting. He wanted to get it before it moved again, so he won’t be here for Christmas.”

A knot loosens in the center of Sam’s chest. Huh. That’s new. Since when does Dad being away make him feel better, not worse? Dean’s expecting an answer, though, so Sam puts on a sad face.

“I was hoping he’d be here.” A half-truth. Sam _was_ hoping he’d be here, but the way he’d relaxed just now says otherwise.

Dean searches his face. “You’re lying.”

Sam doesn’t confirm or deny. He knows better than that—Dean taught him.

“Listen, Sammy, I know it’s been a rough year. Dad’s trying to keep us all afloat, and I’m sorry he’s been snappy lately.”

“Not your fault,” Sam cuts in automatically.

“No, but feels like it is,” Dean says, and Sam understands. It’s easy to understand feeling like everything’s your fault when that’s the only thought you dwell on for hours at a time.

“Here, I’ll make you one of the Kraft mac and cheeses we’ve been saving, and we can snuggle and watch shitty movies or talk if you want.”

That actually sounds really good to Sam. Dean ruffles his hair again before he wanders off to the kitchen to start a pot of water up. Sam grabs the giftbag and puts it in the closet, tucking the necklace in with the sweater. If Dad won’t be here, Dean can have it.

After dinner, Sam lets Dean pull him sideways into his lap and he tucks his head under Dean’s chin, curling as small as he can against Dean’s chest and they watch cliché, overdone rom-coms. It’s not long before Sam starts to feel his eyelids drooping, but he remembers the gift right before he falls asleep. He wriggles a little bit and Dean’s arms tighten.

“What’s up, kiddo?”

“Present f’you,” Sam slurs, trying to pull his eyes open.

“You got me something?” Dean asks, genuine surprise in his voice, and Sam’s tummy flutters. He likes making Dean happy.

“’s in the closet,” he whispers into Dean’s chest, and Dean hums. There’s a moment of quiet before Sam feels Dean’s hold on him shift so that he’s propped on Dean’s hip like he’s a baby again and Dean’s carrying him around everywhere.

“C’mon, baby boy,” Dean grunts, hoisting Sam more securely onto his hip as he stands. “Jeez, last time I did this you must’ve been two or three.”

Sam buries his face in Dean’s neck, breathing in the familiar mix of leather and gunpowder and generic hotel soap and blueberry pie that he’s come to know as _Dean._ He doesn’t know what Dad sees that makes him so mad when he and Dean are cuddly like this, and it makes Sam sad. Maybe he just sees a leech in Sam’s place, sucking the life and hunter blood out of Dean and forcing him into this role of “mother” to Sam. Sometimes Sam wonders how Dad would react if he just… disappeared one day. Would he even see his child or just a weight lifted? After all, Sam _was_ the reason Mom died.

Sam chooses to ignore that thought and focuses on Dean feeling around in the darkness of the closet for the bag. There’s a crinkle and then Dean’s holding the garishly red and green _thing_ in his hands and Sam starts to second-guess his choices.

“Did you swipe this, Sammy?” Dean asks, just a hint of amusement in his voice.

Sam nods sleepily, forcing his lip to stop trembling. Dean notices, of course.

“Are you crying?” Dean sets the bag down, and Sam wants to scream, wants to tell him to stop wasting his time trying to console him. He just shrugs, scrunching his eyes shut and turning his face into Dean’s shoulder. Dean shouldn’t be this worried.

“Hey, hey, hey, Sam, talk to me,” Dean says, bringing them back to the bed and pulling the covers up to cover Sam, who slides back down to his original position.

“’s nothing. I’m fine,” Sam says, jutting his chin out and pressing his lips together. The effect is a little ruined by the tears that spill onto his cheeks.

“Well, clearly not,” Dean says, thumbing away the tears on Sam’s cheeks. “Listen, Sammy, I need you to talk to me before I can help you.”

“Not now,” Sam whispers, nuzzling into the dip of Dean’s throat. “Open the present. That’s gonna help, I think.”

“Whatever you want,” Dean says, then hesitates. “Gonna have to move so I can go grab it.”

Sam shakes his head, slides off Dean’s lap. The space will give him a chance to breathe, and he thinks Dean understands. Sam takes his time with the four steps to the closet, with the four steps back, focusing on getting his breathing back to normal. He balls the necklace up in his fist and swipes at his eyes before he crawls back into Dean’s space, leaning against his side instead of sitting in his lap, where he places the present.

Dean pulls the makeshift wrapping paper out of the bag and unfolds the sweater. His face lights up, and Sam can’t help the watery, shaky smile that creeps onto his mouth.

“Oh my god, _Sammy_. Thank you so much,” Dean says, and Sam lets Dean wrap him up in a tight hug, pressing them so close together Sam can feel Dean’s heartbeat, and it’s more soothing than he’d think.

Sam extends his hand once Dean lets him go. The necklace rests there, metal warm from his skin. There are little imprints in his palm from how hard he’d been squeezing it, and Dean cocks his head.

“For me?”

Sam nods. “Was gonna be for Dad but I want you to have it.”

Dean takes it and lets it dangle from his fingertips. He slips it over his head and it sits against his sternum, and it’s almost eerie the way Sam’s chest unknots when he sees it.

“Thank you so much, Sam, I love them both. Now go get changed and brush your teeth, alright? I’m gonna check the salt lines and then we’re gonna sleep.”

Sam nods and heads off to find his sleep clothes.

A few minutes later, Sam finds himself back in Dean’s arms, cradled snugly against his side. The pendant of the necklace is right at eye level, and Sam ends up holding it in his hand as sleep approaches. Dean’s hand comes up to cover his and they fall asleep like that, Dean holding Sam tight to his side.

The amulet comes to represent them and their bond and the way they’ll always have each other even if they don’t have anything else. It’s a reassurance to Sam, that he’s worthy, at least for the time being. That he means something, no matter how small, to Dean.

It’s comforting, day in and day out, seeing the little piece of metal sitting against Dean’s chest as they work and hunt. Sam wants to think Dean’s carrying a piece of him, but he tries not to think about that too much. Dean shouldn’t have to deal with his shit, let alone carry something holds even a fraction of the baggage Sam knows he carries.

The day Dean trashes the amulet is possibly the lowest moment of Sam’s life, and god only knows Sam’s had a lot of pretty low moments. He picks the thing up, the familiar weight of it in his palm turned unfamiliar without a warm chest behind it. He coils it around his hand and ends up dropping it in one of his duffel pockets, and it goes with them. He can’t exactly say he was surprised, because he’s not, because he knows it was going to happen someday. It still stings, though. More than stings. It’s like Dean pulls the plug. It’s like he’s given up on Sam.

Sam doesn’t blame him.

The day Dean tosses the amulet is also the first day in a long time that Sam walks deep into the woods with only a .45mm in his hand and feels the cool metal of it against his temple. It’s not the first day he’s done that, but it’s the first day since he was eight that his finger curls around the trigger.

It’s the first time he’s felt nothing as he takes a breath and exhales, finger tightening.

He closes his eyes, thinks of the people he loves (there’s so few, just Dad and Bobby and Dean, Dean, Dean). Sees Dean’s face, crumpled in pain, hunched over his body. Sees Dean clawing frantically at his own skin. Sees Dean pick up the .45mm. Sees Dean press it to his own throat, to his own forehead. Sees Dean’s tears fall before he pulls the trigger.

Sam stops.

The metal’s burning an imprint into his skull, white-hot against his skin. He pulls it away. Stares straight down the barrel.

Unloads the gun, pockets the bullet.

Walks back to the motel.

Dean doesn’t deserve to die because Sam’s too selfish.

 

-fin.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always appreciated. suffice to say i don't subscribe to the notion that suicide is selfish.
> 
> suicide hotline: 1-800-273-8255


End file.
